


welcome to hell, welcome to paradise

by carefulren



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bullying Mentions, Drama, Drug Use, F/M, Horror, M/M, Rape Mentions, Romance, Slow Burn, basically coming of age and spooks with some funny and sad mixed in between
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-02-23 22:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13199949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carefulren/pseuds/carefulren
Summary: Derry, Maine is nothing like California, as Richie and Beverly quickly learn. It's cold, dull, and creepy as fuck, but with some new friends (and more than friends), perhaps the two can fit in-- and maybe conquer some killer clown along the way.(otherwise known as 'kids vs it: college edition')





	1. eddie kaspbrack: a spitball of fire

It’s late when Richie and Beverly arrive on campus. Check in time was hours ago, but a sudden onset of nerves had the two pulling off at an abandoned truck stop only two hours from the school and breaking out the bag of joints Bev secured the day before the two were packed and ready to go.

Neither has ever left their bustling city in California that they’ve called home for eighteen years; they’re used to the chaos of a city: cars honking in the middle of the night, mounds of people walking to work each day, ice cream carts, an open sky framed with skyscrapers, the whole package. So, going from the blaring sounds of a city to the borderline silence of small-town Derry, Maine is unsettling, unnerving, and a shit ton of other words that had Richie and Bev splitting two joints before finally getting back on the road.

Either could have gone to a prestigious artistic school, with Richie’s art skills and Bev’s dancing, yet they opted not to because that’s what everyone expected of them. Instead, they pulled up a map, closed their eyes, and blindly picked out a town far from their shit-show families, or rather, what’s left of them.

Derry, Maine is not what either expected, and to be honest, Richie’s surprised that the town can even support a college. It’s small and oddly old-school; it feels as if the two drove straight into an uncomfortable time-warp. Everything is grey, cold, and oddly frightening. There’s an almost suffocating sense of dullness to each house—except for one.

Richie can’t get the twisted image of the massive, broken down house on Neibolt Street out of his mind. It looked almost Victorian, and it was haunting, with a low fog surrounding it. The yard around it was unkempt, and the structure looked so unsteady that a gust of wind could probably take the whole thing down. It was terrifying, and yet, Richie felt drawn to it, as if the image stained a piece of his mind.

The college campus isn’t in a much better state; it’s certainly old and incredibly small, with only three buildings: the dorm building, the classrooms building, and the employee building. The brick walls are cracked, the parking space lines are faded, the lights framing a dirty sidewalk are dim, with half broken. It looks like shit, which Richie and Bev find very fitting considering the small town that accompanies it.

When Bev pulls into a spot, she and Richie can only sit and stare for an endless moment as the radio fills the silence between the two.

“Is it too late to turn back?” Richie asks, fingers fiddling with the ends of a bright red concert shirt from two years ago.

“Yep,” Bev answers after a moment, popping the ‘p’ as she slips out of the beat-up truck she ‘inherited’ from her father after his untimely death. She grabs her bag, and Richie follows suit. Neither had much to pack, so one duffle bag each was enough to carry all of their belongings.

“Who’s your roommate?” Bev asks as she starts toward the dorm building.

Richie means to follow with an answer, but a twig snapping has him drawing to a stop and craning his neck to get a better look at the forest of trees clustered off to the side of the parking lot. It’s hard to see because everything is suddenly growing impossibly dark despite the crackling street lights overhead. He adjusts his glasses, pushing them closer to his eyes as if that action will make him see better, and he takes a few steps forward, feeling almost as if he’s not fully in control of his body. His legs move closer toward the trees when he catches sight of a wisp of dry, orange hair popping out from behind a massive tree trunk.

_“Richie.”_

Richie’s blood goes as cold as the air around him. He crosses his arms, shaking slightly as he creeps toward the hair, toward the voice, toward-

“Richard!”

Richie’s shoulders jerk up as a tremor jolts through his whole body. He whips around to see Bev turned around and staring at him with her arms crossed.

“What the fuck are you doing? If you are thinking of escaping, I’ll kick your ass because I’m not letting you leave me here alone.”

Shaking his head as if trying to rid his mind of the cold fear consuming it, Richie jogs back over to Bev, raking one hand through his hair as his other fiddles with the side pocket of his duffle bag until he finds the slip of paper with his dorm number and roommate. “No, sorry. I just thought I saw something.”

“Too much weed,” Bev mutters as she turns back to start toward the dorm building, and Richie lets out a breathy laugh of agreement.

“Probably.” He glances down to his paper, bringing the small slip closer to his eyes as he reads out the name. “Eddie Kaspbrack. What the fuck kind of name is that?”

“Like your name is any better,” Bev calls over her shoulder before she pushes open a creaky glass door.

The inside of the building is a lot like the outside, like the whole town for that matter. It’s old—the grey wallpaper is peeling, the wooden floors scream under their weight, and it’s just as cold inside as it is outside. There’s what looks like a ninety-year-old woman hunched behind a desk off to their left, but the sound of the door has the woman slowly getting to her feet and training a narrow, vicious glare at the two.

“Richard Tozier and Beverly Marsh I presume.”

Bev steps forward with an easy smile. “Yes, ma’am. I apologize for-”

“Shut up.”

Richie’s tongue practically burns to tell this old hag off, but Bev puts an arm out as he steps forward and offers a small shake of the head, leaving Richie swallowing back the ball of insults creeping up his throat.

“There are two rules that you will follow at all times: no members of the opposite sex in your dorm after 6 pm and no leaving campus after dark on weeknights.”

The rules are batshit crazy, Richie thinks. Just like this ancient woman, and the creepy house, and the weird thing he saw outside. What kind of shithole did he and Bev stumble into?

“Ms. Marsh, you are on floor one. Room number three. You’ll be sharing with Greta Keene. Mr. Tozier, you are on floor four. Room number-”

“Four,” Richie interrupts, tone flat, dry, and dripping with annoyance. “Sharing with Eddie Kaspbrack; I know.” He holds up the paper, waving it about as he strides toward a set of creaky stairs off to one side of the desk. “I can read.” He starts up the steps, turning back to give a salute toward Bev. “Godspeed, solider.” He shouts in an British accent, ignoring the almost fatal glare from the old brute, before he turns and climbs the steps as Bev goes a different direction to the first-floor dorms.

Each step creaks loudly under Richie’s weight, and there’s not much too him considering he’s all height. He breathes out a shaky sigh of relief when he makes it to the fourth floor without plummeting to the bottom, and he creeps down the dark hallway, glancing toward the flickering overhead lights with a frown as he approaches the fourth door.

There are faint, hushed voices filtering in from behind the closed door: one male and one female. A quick, telling smile tugs at Richie’s lips as he sucks in a deep breath and throws the door open. He’s prepared to bust his roommate for breaking the rules, but his sudden devious plan falls off gaping lips as he takes in the scene he wasn’t really prepared for.  

There’s a woman, a heavyset woman with a vomit colored jumpsuit and lipstick that covers more than just the lips, towering over an incredibly small boy, who’s sitting on the edge of one of the dorm beds with his knees drawn to his chest. The woman looks worried, even more so when she locks a narrow gaze on Richie.

“Oh, Eddie, honey,” the woman starts, keeping her gaze locked on Richie. “Just come back home. I can drive you to all of your classes. You don’t want to stay with… _him_.”

The way she says ‘him,’ as if it leaves a putrid taste in her mouth, has Richie dropping his duffle with a low thud to the floor and balling his hands into fists at his side. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He spits out at the same time the boy on the bed lets out a weak “mom, stop.”

“Do not speak to me that way, young man.”

Richie’s eyes glow red, only for a moment. He wants to snap at this woman because what the fuck? She’s in his dorm room calling him out when she doesn’t even know him, but there’s an almost desperate look in the kid’s eyes—Eddie, he assumes—that tells him to not pick a fight, so instead, he calmly steps to the side and motions toward the hall outside.

“No members of the opposite sex are allowed in the dorms after 6 pm,” Richie starts as he glances at the wall clock hanging up on Eddie’s side of the room. “And as it would seem, it’s 8:12 pm, and you are a woman… I think.” The woman’s concerned features pinch into a look of pure rage as Eddie brings a cupped palm to his mouth to hide a faint smile.

“Therefore,” Richie continues, “you are breaking the rules and need to leave now.”

The woman is flustered, angry, and Richie can tell the gears are turning in that giant head of hers. He braces himself for an argument—leaning forward ever so slightly and cocking his head to the side, but to Richie’s surprise, she doesn’t argue. She only lets out a huff, cups Eddie’s cheek and tells him that she’ll call soon, then storms out the door, shoving Richie into a wall on her way out.

The door slams behind her, and her heavy footfalls echoe faintly down the hall before everything falls silent. For a moment, neither Richie nor Eddie utters a single word, both breathing loud enough as if they’ve just finished a physical fight, but after a solid minute, it’s Eddie who breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry.”

Richie pulls a slow gaze toward Eddie and shrugs. “Moms are weird. I’m Richie, by the way.” He grabs his duffle bag and tosses it on the bed opposite Eddie’s before he stops in front of a desk that’s lined with pill bottles. “Are you dying?” He asks, glancing over his shoulder toward Eddie.

A huff similar to that of his mom’s pushes past Eddie’s lips as he gets to his feet. “No, my mom’s overbearing. She thinks I’m sick.”

Richie’s gaze slides over Eddie’s entire form—there’s not much. Eddie is incredibly short and thin; Richie would think that Eddie doesn’t look old enough for college, but the one thing keeping the thought at bay is Eddie’s face. The boy looks tired, drawn in, as if he’s seen the world twice over.

“Are you?” Richie asks, arching one brow as he pulls his gaze away to examine a pill bottle. “You’re small as fuck.”

“No!” Eddie snaps, snatching the pill bottle away from Richie and putting it back into place on his desk. “And, fuck off. You’re not the first person to comment on my height, so get new material, asshole.”

The hostility in Eddie’s tone and the fire boiling behind Eddie’s eyes has Richie smiling, of all things. He was worried that his roommate would be a dud, but maybe not with this burning spitball that is Eddie Kaspbrack. He holds his hands up as if in surrender and offers a bow.

“My apologies,” he calls out loudly in a British accent. “I did not mean to offend, your majesty.”

“What the fuck?” Eddie says, almost shouting as he turns toward his bed to finish unpacking. “How the fuck did I get stuck with a freak?” He mutters under his breath, and Richie can’t keep the laugh from pushing past his lips as he straightens his back and turns toward his own bed.

Maybe Derry, Maine isn’t going to be as bad as he thought.


	2. let's talk about georgie

_It’s dark and cold; there’s an unnerving feeling of anticipation, as if Richie is waiting for something to pop out around the corner, and it’s got his stomach twisting into a ball of nerves while his heart skips to a quick, unsteady beat. Visibility is low, but Richie moves forward, almost as if his legs know where to go despite his mind not being quite sure of where he even is._

_His boots are stepping on creaky, wooden floor boards, and each step brings a low tremble; his best guess is that he’s in a house on the second flood. Whose house? He’s not sure. Why? He’s clueless, but his legs are still taking him from room to room as if searching for something, leaving him with nothing better to do than to follow his own muscles toward… whatever it is._

_He crosses his arms as a wafting chill settles around him—his arms are bare; he’s wearing nothing but a bright, short-sleeve Hawaiian shirt he hasn’t seen in years. It’s a childhood shirt, one that he stole from his father’s wardrobe when he was twelve, and his brows furrow because he burned this shirt when he was sixteen… Didn’t he?_

_A brief flick crosses his mind—this isn’t real. A dream most likely, but he thought people couldn’t determine they were dreaming while dreaming? He digs his fingers into his arms as he keeps moving forward. He turns into a hall, and with each step, the dusty overhead lights pop on. He blinks quickly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness, and when he can see without squinting, he spots two long walls littered with pictures. Each one shows a person he’s never seen before—black and white photos with the eyes crossed out in bright red ex’s, but the second to last one is in color, and his legs stop and turn him toward it._

_There’s a young boy—can’t be more than six or seven. He’s wearing a bright yellow raincoat, and he’s holding a paper boat. There’s something written on the side of the boat, but the words are smudged. He leans forward, one hand reaching toward the painting, but a loud gasp has him jerking back and snapping a quick gaze to the right—to the last picture._

_Eddie Kaspbrack is wearing a jacket—a too-large leather jacket that Richie recognizes instantly. His roommate is crying in the frame, and unlike the others, his eyes aren’t marked—they are large, filled with an unfamiliar fear, and welling with tears that accompany streaked, pale cheeks and a red nose. He looks like a sad, moving portrait from a Harry Potter movie, and Richie’s heart pangs with the sudden need to help. He reaches forward as if to brush the tears away, but his hand freezes when he hears a low, gravelly whisper—one he’s heard before._

_“Richie.”_

_Richie jerks his hand back and snaps a sharp glance to the left. There’s an open door leading into a dimly lit room—he doesn’t remember the door being there before, but that doesn’t stop him from slowly walking in. His first impression is clowns—a shit ton. The room is packed from floor to ceiling with small clowns, big clowns, too many fucking clowns. He shudders, not from the cold, and presses forward toward a large coffin in the center of the room. His heart is thumping like a rabbit’s foot against his chest, but his legs take him forward in large, steady strides until he’s standing in front of the coffin and looking down at it with trembling eyes._

_“Just a dream,” he mutters to himself as he slides his fingers around an edge to open the coffin. “Just some twisted,” he continues as he slowly moves his arms up, “fucking,” he grunts out because the lid to the coffin is heavier than he thought, “dream!” With a final push of his muscles, he manages to open the coffin fully, and inside lies a life-size clown with closed eyes._

_The clown has white, cracked skin and a bulging head. It’s wearing an outfit that Richie would have found laughable at any other occasion, but there’s no laughing—not when his shaking eyes zero in on the wispy, dry, orange hair jutting out around the bulge. The familiarity has his stomach plummeting to the floor, and he’s about to slam the lid shut when the clown’s eyes shoot open._

_“Fuck!” Richie jumps back as the clown moves into a sitting position._

_Slowly, the clown turns a popping neck to meet Richie’s wide eyes, and Richie’s a half-second from turning away to run because he hates fucking clowns, but suddenly, the clown is flying toward him with incredibly long arms and claws for fingers. The clown’s hand wraps around his neck and squeezes hard. Richie can’t breathe; he tries to suck in a deep breath, but his airways are completely closed off. Gasping, choking sounds are all that slip from his closed throat as the clown shoves him hard against a wall and leans in close to his face._

_“He’ll die, Richie.”_

_Richie jerks from left to right, desperately trying to break free._

_“He’ll die because of you, Richie.”_

_Dark spots dance across Richie’s vision as unconsciousness creeps at the corners of his mind. He manages out a raspy “Fuck you,” because he’s not going to pass out before telling this asshole off._

_The clown only laughs, though, and squeezes tighter at Richie’s neck while shouting his name._

_“Richie! Richie! Richie! Richie-”_

“Richie!”

Richie shoots forward with a deep, strained gasp that leaves him coughing harshly as his lungs struggle to catch up to the breaths he wants so desperately to suck in. One, shaking hand finds his neck, and he winces slightly, as if he can still feel the sharp claws digging into his skin.

“Fucking hell, Richie! Are you okay?”

Richie pulls a squinting gaze to the right to see Eddie perched on his bed with one hand to his back. Eddie’s eyes are impossibly wide and colored with concern, but there are no tears. Richie reaches his free hand out to make sure, brushing trembling fingers to cool, dry cheeks.

“What the hell are you doing?” Eddie asks, jerking his face away from Richie’s hand.

Richie lets his hand fall to the bed as he shakes his head slowly, grimacing at damp bangs that brush against his cheeks. “I need a cigarette,” he mutters, already swinging his legs over the bed and getting to his feet while Eddie only moves to the side and gapes at him.

“You can’t exactly leave, you know?”

Richie ignores this as he digs through his duffle bag for his cigarettes and his lighter. “There’s a way to the roof, right?” He asks as he reaches for his leather jacket, hand pausing only for a moment as a flick of the dream flashes across his eyes, and slips it on before shoving his bare feet into a pair of boots.

“Yeah, but-”

“I’ll go there.” He cuts Eddie off as he snags his sketchbook and his pencil case and starts toward the door, opening and closing it on the huffed “Richie!” from Eddie.

It doesn’t take Richie long to find roof access—it’s a building, all he had to do was go up. He’s surprised, however, to find that the door is unlocked. He shoves it open and sucks in a deep breath as a gust of wind brushes his hair back. He feels relatively calm for the first time since waking up; he can breathe, his mind is clear, and he’s no longer shaking from a gripping fear. He takes a spot close to the door, pressing his back against the cool wall and cupping his hand around a cigarette as he flicks his lighter a few times to light it.

Relaxing bliss washes over him as he deeply sucks in the nicotine, and his eyes flutter closed. He doesn’t hear the door open again, nor does he hear the crunch of gravel or the shifting as someone sits beside him.

“Those things will kill you, you know? Lung cancer is no fucking joke. My great aunt-”

“Why are you here?” Richie asks, slowly opening his eyes and sliding his gaze over to Eddie, who’s sitting with his legs drawn to his chest—always making himself look impossibly small.

“I came to make sure you weren’t going to jump or something. Crat will have my head if my roommate dies on the first night.”

“Crat?”

“The dinosaur that mans the front desk.”

Nodding, Richie lets out a puff of smoke as his muscles further relax. “I’m not going to jump,” he adds after a moment. “Why would I ever want to leave this thrilling town?” He mutters, voice dry, yet slightly teasing.

“Why’d you come?”

“Wanted to get away… Wanted to get Beverly away.” Richie drops his gaze, boot moving against small stones.

“Beverly?” Eddie questions softly. “Your girlfriend-”

“Best friend,” Richie corrects. “I’m out and proud.”

All Eddie offers is a small “oh” before silence falls between the two. Richie flips through his sketchpad for a blank page then fiddles through his pencil case for the right colors. The sky’s quite cloudy and grey, but there’s just enough moonlight to work with—even if not, his muscle memory would glide his hand across the page with ease; it always does. He starts drawing when Eddie decides to talk again.

“Do you want to talk about it? The dream, I mean…”

“Just a nightmare,” Richie mutters as he works on his outline. “First day jitters or some shit.”

“You’re certainly more subdued then when we met earlier.”

“You can leave,” Richie spits out, hand pausing over shaping a head to motion toward the door. “No one is asking you to stay.” Eddie doesn’t move though, much to Richie’s surprise. His roommate only drops his chin atop one knee.

“I’m staying.”

“Fine,” Richie grunts out as he moves his gaze back to his sketchpad.

For two hours, Richie works. At some point, he feels a pressure against his shoulder—Eddie has nodded off and slipped over to use his shoulder as a pillow. Richie stops what he’s doing and struggles out of his jacket with Eddie’s borderline dead weight against his shoulder. He manages; though, it takes a good three minutes, but soon enough, he’s got his jacket draped over Eddie’s smaller form, and Eddie sighs in his sleep, a breath of content that pulls a light laugh from Richie before he shuts his sketchbook and closes his eyes.

The two sleep for another two hours before the rising sun pulls the two awake. They are mostly silent as they get to their feet to hit the showers, with the only speech coming from Eddie’s mumbled “one of us is going to get pneumonia because of your stupid shit.”

Richie only laughs at this, and no other words are spoken until the two are showered, dressed, and ready for their first day.

“You can sit with us at breakfast.”

One of Richie’s brows quirks into a questioning arch. “Us?”

“My friends,” Eddie says as if it’s the most obvious statement in the world. He starts toward the door, shouldering his backpack on his way out, and Richie has nothing better to do than to follow.

“Thank you, kind sir,” he calls out in a loud, British accent that has Eddie huffing loudly from in front of him.

“Not this fucking shit again…”

When the two reach the cafeteria, Eddie makes a beeline for a table where three other boys are sitting, and right off the bat, Richie recognizes one because who the hell doesn’t know football prodigy Mike Hanlon?

“Guys, this is my roommate Richie,” Eddie introduces as he takes a seat across from some guy with wild, curly hair.

The others greet Richie with varying “heys” and “sups?” and Richie nods toward them before taking a seat beside Mike as he slips his sketchbook onto the table.

“Why is football legend Mike Hanlon here and not literally anywhere else?”

Mike shrugs with a smile as he bites into an apple. “My friends are here.”

“Does Derry even have a football team?”

“T-they do now.”

Richie pulls his gaze to the boy across from him, and he quirks his head slightly. The question is on his lips, but before it can find a voice, the curly hair guy steps in.

“Bill,” curly hair says as he nods toward the boy across from Richie. “Yes, he has a stutter. No, you don’t need to comment on it.”

“S-Stan-” Bill starts, but curly hair cuts him off.

“And, I’m Stan—Bill’s boyfriend.”

Richie isn’t sure what to say. Curly hair—Stan—is quick, abrasive, yet holds a soft-spoken tone. Richie likes him already. And, Bill? Bill looks like someone who’s hiding something. He’s smiling, but there’s a darkness creeping behind his eyes.

Nodding, Richie offers a wide smile toward the two. “Pleasure to meet you, lads!”

“What the fuck?” Stan mutters, grimacing at the poor British accent at the same time Eddie sighs loudly and cups a hand to his head, massaging his temples.

“He does that.” Eddie offers, voice thick with annoyance that only has Richie’s lips curling up into an impossibly large smile.

But, Richie’s smile is quick to fall into a deep, angered frown when Bev approaches the table with some guy. There’s dark bruising around Bev’s right eye, and her lip is spilt and slightly swollen. Richie’s on his feet in a second, and his vision burns to a deep red.

“Who?” is all he asks, voice rough, low, dangerous.

“Greta fucking Keene,” Bev grumbles as she takes a seat, with the boy accompanying her taking a seat beside her. Her words pull winces of sympathy from the others, but Richie doesn’t notice—his fists only curl tighter until his nails are digging into his palms.

“What happened?” Richie questions through clenched teeth. “You two just met.”

“We didn’t hit it off,” Bev shrugs. “Sit down; if you think I look bad, you should see her.”

“I think her nose is broken,” the guy beside Bev says, and when Richie arches a brow toward him, the guy lets out a nervous laugh. “Sorry, I’m Ben. I bumped into Bev in the hall after the fight and invited her back to my room.”

“I was looking for your room,” Bev says to Richie. “I snuck past Crat when she took a bathroom break and went to look for your dorm. Bumped into this guy instead,” she says with a smile as she nudges her shoulder against Ben’s. “His roommate decided to not go to college last minute, so he’s got a dorm to himself.”

“Lucky,” Eddie mutters under his breath.

Richie hears this, but he ignores it—just this once. He places one hand to his sketchbook as he and Bev lock eyes, sharing a silent conversation that eases him down from the cliff he was teetering over. Looks like Greta fucking Keene gets to live to see another day, but she better hope she doesn’t bump into Richie soon—or ever for that matter.

“W-what’s that?”

Richie snaps his gaze to see Bill nodding toward the sketchbook.

“Do you draw?”

Nodding, Richie flips to his drawing from the early morning hours and slides it across the table to Bill. “I-” he starts, prepared to explain his wild dream, but his words trail off when Bill goes positively rigid in his seat. “What’s-” Richie starts, but he can’t finish because Bill is on his feet, shaking from head to toe.

“I-I’m sorry,” Bill says before he turns sharply on his heel and starts toward the doors leading outside.

Stan’s gaze remains on the drawing for a long moment before he shoots Richie a look that’s a mix of hurt and anger. Richie opens his mouth but closes it when Stan shakes his head and turns to find Bill.

Silence falls across the table as Eddie slowly reaches for the sketchbook. Richie shoots a panicked gaze toward Eddie as Eddie’s eyes slowly scan the drawing.

“It’s just what I dreamed about,” Richie starts, feeling suddenly as if he’s under a spotlight. “The nightmare—this clown choked me…”

“Richie,” Bev starts, voice quiet, worried. “What-”

A trembling gasp from Eddie cuts her off, and it takes a moment for Eddie to pull his gaze away from the drawing to lock wide, shaking eyes to Richie’s.

“I think I should tell you guys about Georgie…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback is appreciated!


	3. neibolt street

It’s an entire day of first classes, ice breakers, and forced explanations as to why he moved across the country to be here until Richie is able to skip out of class and start toward the designated meet up place: the roof. Personally, he thinks it’s risky to go out onto the roof during the day—he doesn’t want to get kicked out of this stupid place on his first day—but Stan, of all people, assured him that no one would notice, so he takes a half-second’s time to drop his bag and newly assigned homework in his dorm and grab his cigarettes before he pushes past lingering boys to get to the roof.

He’s cautious as he opens the door, shoulders tense, prepared, awaiting… something—he isn’t sure what. But, he spots Bev, Eddie, Ben, and Stan sitting off to the left in a circle with one open spot between Eddie and Bev. Richie offers a nod of greeting before he slips a cigarette from his pack and pops it between two lips before he slides down onto the gravel between Eddie and Bev.

No one says anything at first; there’s an air of discomfort surrounding the group, but Bev cuts through it with an outstretched hand and a clear of the throat, prompting Richie to offer a cigarette with one hand as he fishes through his pocket for his lighter with the other.

He’s moving his cigarette toward the open flame on his lighter when he spots Stan watching expectantly. “Want one?” Richie asks, voice slightly muffled, and Stan only nods, earning a scoff from Eddie.

“It’s like you all just want to fucking die,” Eddie mutters as Richie tosses the pack and the lighter to Stan.

“We’re all dying every second,” Richie says as he exhales a puff of smoke, shoulders dropping as if blowing out all his worries. “No point in trying to prevent it.”

Eddie’s eyes widen just a fraction, but it’s just noticeable enough to have Bev reaching over to smack the back of Richie’s head.

“Ignore him,” she says. “He’s a pessimist.”

“I’m a realist,” Richie corrects before Stan clears his throat, pulling all attention toward him.

“Can we just get this over with? I told Bill I’d only be gone an hour.”

Richie studies Stan’s hunched in posture. He’s got his legs pulled to his chest, making himself seem small despite his height, and Richie spares one gaze to the left to see that Eddie’s taken a similar stance. Curiosity bites at Richie’s mind; he’s been a bundle of nerves all day with this conversation lingering on the horizon, but now he wants to know—he wants to know what happened to make this group want to hide, to seem like tiny ants hiding behind a large universe.

“Okay,” Eddie breathes out, and Richie picks up on the slight shudder that spikes up Eddie’s spine.

He still looks tired, Richie thinks, more so than usual. He looks like he’s carrying the secrets of the world on his shoulders, and this only sets Richie on edge ever-so slightly. He straightens his back a little, ashes falling from the forgotten cigarette dangling between two fingers as he pushes his full attention on Eddie.

“Georgie was Bill’s little brother…”

_Bill’s heart is hammering in his chest, so much that he thinks it will spring out and leave a gaping hole, yet he pushes forward until he’s shoving Georgie’s door open, chest heaving in and out in long gasps as he strides toward Georgie’s bed._

_“W-what’s wrong?” Bill questions as he drops down onto the edge of the bed, taking one of Georgie’s trembling hands into his own. “Nightmare?”_

_“There was this clown,” Georgie starts with a hiccup. “He was pulling me toward that creepy house on Neibolt Street. His fingers were like claws,” Georgie pauses, one hand finding his arm as if he can still feel the pained pierces against his pale skin._

_Nodding, Bill’s hand tightened around Georgie’s. “It was j-just a dream.”_

_“It felt real.”_

_A new set of tears well in Georgie’s eyes, and Bill’s heart plummets to his stomach. “D-do you want to stay in my room t-tonight?” It’s the right words to say, always is, for Georgie’s face lights up like a star atop a Christmas tree as the younger boy nods wildly with a toothy grin playing across his mouth._

_Bill gets to his feet, and Georgie follows suit. “S-so what did this c-clown look like?”_

_“Gross,” Georgie starts with an animated shudder. “He had this bulging head, and crazy, orange hair…”_

The cigarette falls from Richie’s fingers as his muted breath catches in his throat. It’s a coincidence, he tells himself. Just a coincidence. He shifts a foot to stamp out the cigarette as Eddie takes in a deep breath.

_It’s a few days after Georgie’s nightmare that Bill spots the bruises on Georgie’s arm; they’re faint but visible enough to question Georgie._

_“I had another dream about the clown,” Georgie starts as he and Bill walk to school. “He told me his name was Pennywise the Dancing Clown, and he tried to take me to the house on Neibolt Street again.”_

_Bill’s stomach twists; is it normal to keep dreaming about the same thing?_

_“I think I grabbed at my arm during my sleep to get away from him.”_

_Nodding, Bill crosses his arm as he walks Georgie the rest of the way to the elementary school._

The fumble of the cigarette packet has Richie shifting a quick gaze to see Stan sneaking a second cigarette with a trembling hand. Frowning, he pulls a slow gaze back to see Eddie raking a shaking hand through his short hair, and Richie can’t help but shudder, fearing at what words are going to spill from Eddie’s mouth.

_It’s another week before Bill is leaning against his window frame, watching as Georgie races off after the small paper boat in the pouring rain, his bright yellow jacket standing out against the grayness of the day. A smile plays at his Bill’s lips as he moves back to his bed with a weak cough._

_He’s nodding off when his father comes pounding into his room, eyes tearful, frantic, enough to have Bill shooting out of his bed with questioning eyes. “W-what’s wrong?”_

_“It’s Georgie! He’s missing!”_

“They never found him,” Eddie mutters, eyes downcast to the small pebbles on the roof. “Some woman told us she saw him on the street then turned away for a minute before looking again to find no Georgie but a pool of blood being washed away by the rain.”

“We all searched for months,” Stan finally pipes in, voice soft, weak, somber. “But we never found anything. The police finally declared him as the next dead kid.”

“The next?” Bev asks with a slight tilt of her head.

“Before Georgie, a lot of other kids had gone missing,” Eddie explains with a sigh. “Georgie was the last, though because shortly after they stopped searching and declared him dead, they put the mandatory curfew on the town.”

“It’s been almost five years, but everyone is still afraid—Richie?”

Richie jerks to his feet, breath coming out in trembling, muted gasps. He can see the portrait of the boy in the yellow raincoat in his dream with every blink, but he shakes his head and pulls away when a hand finds his shoulder.

“Richie, are you okay?”

“You look really pale.”

“It’s just a coincidence,” Richie mutters as he starts toward the door that leads back to the dorms. “Right? Just a coincidence?”

“Of course,” Eddie tries, hand reaching toward Richie’s arm, but Richie shrinks away. “The clown you dreamt about probably just reminded Bill of Georgie.”

“Yeah,” Ben says, slowly getting to his feet. “Lots of clowns are creepy looking with orange hair.”

A lump grows in Richie’s throat, words falling lost against trembling lips. He can’t stop seeing the portrait of Georgie from his dream—it had to be Georgie, with a yellow raincoat and a paper boat. But why? Why him? How? There’s too many questions; his mind feels as if it’s going to burst at the seams. He turns toward the door, feeling the worried, questioning eyes at his back.

“Sorry,” he mutters over his shoulder. “I just—I’m tired.” He pulls the door open and can faintly hear Bev telling everyone to “give him space” as he starts back toward his dorm. His mind is reeling as he takes the steps two at a time on wobbling legs, but two forced factors keep coming toward the center of his thoughts: why was he now having dreams of this clown that plagued Georgie, and why was Eddie’s portrait hanging in his dream?

*****

Richie ignores Eddie and Bev’s quiet requests to go to dinner; he’s not hungry. His stomach is twisting into knots, and he only curls onto his dorm bed, back to the door, as he squeezes his eyes shut.

But hours later, after Eddie returns and goes to bed himself, Richie still can’t sleep. Anytime he closes his eyes, vivid visions of his dream flash across closed lids. It’s too much—too overwhelming. He sits up with a soft sigh as he stares through the darkness at the dorm door and before he knows it, he’s swinging his legs over the bed and quietly slipping on his boots and leather jacket before creeping out of the room and toward the roof.

When he steps out onto the gravel, he walks all the way toward the edge, hair lightly blowing along a cold breeze as he studies the drop. His gaze shifts to the right to see a long, worn drain pipe that leads to the sidewalk below. It’s risky, he thinks to himself, but he’s scaled taller buildings and smaller, weaker drain pipes from the many times he snuck in and out of Bev’s apartment building.

He can make it, and he repeats this in his head, over and over as he very carefully starts toward the sidewalk below with a tight, white-knuckled grip around the drain pipe.

There are two close calls when the drain pipe wails loudly against his weight that have his heart skipping a beat, but soon enough, his boots are touching onto the sidewalk. He lets out a shaky sigh, waiting for the hammering in his chest to settle down, before he shoves his hands into his pockets and starts down the sidewalk, away from the college.

His mind wanders as he walks; he’s seeing without really seeing what’s in front of him as he turns corners and moves down empty streets. He doesn’t understand how he’s been in Derry for only two days and has already dreamed about a creepy clown and dead kids. He knows his mind is a little warped, the product of a distant family and poor high school experience, but shit—this is a new level of strange that has him crossing his arms with a shudder.

He wants to believe that this is all pure coincidence—dreaming of the same clown, seeing the portrait of Georgie—but Eddie’s animated portrait always clambers back into his thoughts like a tidal wave that could knock him down. It doesn’t make any fucking lick of sense, and every inch of his body tells him to leave, to grab Bev and race out of this shithole of a town, but there’s the nagging fear in the back of his mind that tells him he can’t—one that tells him he’s needed for something, that if he leaves, something terrible will shake this damned town.

With a puff of a sigh, Richie shakes his head and blinks slowly to allow his surroundings to come back into present focus, but when they do, he sucks in a sharp gasp as the street sign in front of him pulls into focus.

Neibolt Street.

He looks beyond the sign to see the large, creepy house in the distance—the same one that he saw when he and Bev first arrived, and now, the same one that Pennywise the fucking Dancing Clown tried to pull Georgie to in the dreams.

And of fucking course, Richie thinks with a twist of anger that’s laced with fear, he’s here. The icing on the fucking cake. His hands shake in his pockets as he starts toward the house, stopping before the wooden, rickety porch steps that lead to a cracked, old door. Every logical reasoning tells him to not go inside, but he places one foot on the first step, testing its support with his weight. When he gets to the second, the door creaks open, just slightly, but the struggling hinges are loud enough to pull Richie’s eyes from the dangerous steps to the door.

A hand creeps out from the crack—pale with long, almost yellow, claws for fingers. Richie’s heart thumps to a stop. His mind tells him to run, but he’s frozen in place, glued to his spot by a heavy weight of fear that pushes further down when he catches sight of a white face, orange hair, and eyes that seem to glow a yellowish red. His foot is moving toward the next step as if a magnet to a piece of metal—he’s being drawn in despite the crippling fear tearing away at his heart. His entire body is trembling, but he moves forward, moving closer toward the house, toward the—

“Richie!”

A hand latches onto his arm and pulls him off the steps. He loses his balances and topples to the grass, bringing Eddie with him. But, he’s quick to sit up despite the new ache in his back from the fall, and his eyes quickly scan the closed door, seemingly absent of any clown-like presence, and it’s only then that he can breathe again, that his heart can start beating and his lungs can take in air.

“Are you out of our fucking mind?!” Eddie shouts as he gets to his feet, pulling Richie up with him. “Why the fuck are you here?!”

Richie can only shake his head, words lost against a trembling body that Eddie catches onto with a frown.

“Jesus, Richie,” Eddie starts, voice a little softer as he starts pulling Richie toward a car parked along the street, with Mike Hanlon behind the wheel.

“Why’s Mike here?” Richie mutters out.

“Because I’m not an idiot and know not to go out after curfew alone.”

Richie stumbles after Eddie toward the car, but he stops when Eddie pulls the back door open, craning his neck to look at the house once more, to make sure that nothing’s there—that nothing is following them.

“Get in the fucking car,” Eddie growls out before shoving Richie into the seat. He moves to the passenger seat, offering a curt shake of the head to Mike’s worried, questioning gaze. “Just go,” he mutters, rubbing at his temples as Mike slowly puts the car into drive.

“Fucking hell,” Eddie mutters under his breath. “Goddamn new kid is going to be the death of of me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is appreciated as always :)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write an IT multi-chapter for a hot minute. I would appreciate feedback!


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